


The Curtains Are Twitchin at All Who Pout and Preen

by universe



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Cleaning, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, House Cleaning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-12
Updated: 2009-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universe/pseuds/universe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When Laura Roslin feels overwhelmed, she cleans.</i> Even more so after the end of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curtains Are Twitchin at All Who Pout and Preen

When the Admiral needs time to think, he builds model ships.

Billy meets Dee for dinner when there is something on his mind.

When Lee feels like it's all too much to bear, he hits things, preferably the gym's punching bag.

And when Laura Roslin feels overwhelmed, she cleans.

At first, it had been a bit of a problem finding a place to clean and figuring out how to hide the fact that the newly appointed President of the Colonies spends her spare time tidying unused quarters.

Laura has always scrubbed bad things away, even before the attacks, and even more so after the end of everything.

She gives the order to destroy the Olympic Carrier and polishes her makeshift living space until not a speck of dust remains.

When she divides the fleet, she tidies the quarters allocated to her by Tom Zarek while Kara Thrace is fighting for her life on Caprica just to bring Laura some mystical arrow that she only now has started to believe in.

The Agathon baby. The first human/Cylon hybrid. _Hera._ She takes her away from her parents, hurts them (and Bill) in the process, she knows (—pain, despair she has not known, can't have known, and yet... —she thinks of Billy). With every scrub of the ward room she had Tory clear for her, a bit of the weight is lifted from her shoulders.

As she decides to steal the election, to undermine the one basic principle of the democracy she builds her government upon, she cleans and cleans until her conscience shines more brightly than the sun. She has gotten so very good at polishing her soul and heart that letting Baltar win does not even cross her mind. Until Bill comes along —Bill with his clean slate (dirtier than Lee's, not quite as soiled and muddy as her own)— and tells her what she can and cannot do. (And this is _his_ method of cleaning, she thinks, and plays along.)

On New Caprica, she exists (not lives, for this cannot be called _living_) under the Cylons' tyranny and knows only one way to fight, only one way to go on. She lets Colonel Tigh send their own people to their deaths and sweeps her tent every night to get rid of a fraction of the guilt.

When she tells Bill to question Gaius Baltar, she has the usual urge to start scrubbing, but she ignores it and continues her daily routine, but as she watches her former Vice-President be tortured, her throat constricts with the wish to get out, to get away, to wash off the remorse.

It is in his quarters that Bill finds her in the evening, dusting his bookshelves and polishing every flat surface within her reach. She does not notice his presence at first, caught up in her thoughts and soapy water, and he stops in his tracks when he sees her sitting among piles of his favourite novels, wearing a grey sweater that looks suspiciously like it belongs to him. (He does not mind; on the contrary, he is humbled by the thought that she feels comfortable enough to borrow his clothes.)

"Laura?"

Even though his voice is quiet, she startles and almost drops the book she's been holding.

"I— umm... I thought you'd be in CIC for the rest of the day?"

He thinks he spots a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes.

"I left early. Tigh is in command."

"Oh."

It seems to be the only thing she is able to say, and he hates seeing her so tense. He takes a few steps toward her, extends his hand to help her up and guides her to the couch, slowly, softly, reassuringly.

"What are you doing here, Laura?"

His hand never leaves hers, he wants her to feel safe. To feel loved.

She starts talking of cleaning and conscience, of scrubbing and a voice of reason, of dust and rubbish and remorse, and it does not quite add up, but he listens anyway, holds her, helps her heal.

Afterwards, when she is done talking, he picks her up and all but carries her to his rack, pulling the blanket over her body. He will let her rest and finish dusting. She does not have to carry this burden alone.

He wonders how often this has been happening, how often she's had to escape the aftermath of their responsibilities like this, silently, secretly, always careful nobody would find her in this state, her guard down and her outfit less presidential than any of her constituents care to imagine.

He is glad he was the one who found her, that she chose his quarters to clean, that she trusts him enough to open up to him now (not always, not at the beginning —but that does not matter anymore, never again).

The last bit of dust polished away, he slides the remaining books back onto the shelf and gets up to wash his hands. When he returns, she is awake and has changed into her blouse again, but is still lying on his bed.

He sits down next to her, a soft smile on his face as he whispers.

"Hey."

She smiles too, in return, and he has the sudden urge to ask her to sleep in his quarters more often. He shakes his head slightly, chasing the thought away, and asks her how she's feeling.

"Better, thank you."

It's all she says, but her eyes tell so much more, everything he needs to know, and he grins, one last time before she raises the issue of Gaius Baltar and his trial again.

"I told him I didn't take any satisfaction in seeing his pain, but the truth is, I was willing to see him endure a great deal of suffering in order to get what I wanted. It wasn't some intelligence or some truth, I wanted a genuine admission of guilt."

She's fought her own remorse for such a long time, it's only fair that Baltar does the same, but they both know that will never happen.

"That's something you're not gonna get from someone like Baltar. He doesn't see himself that way. It's not who he is. In his eyes, he's the victim, not the criminal."

Laura gazes at the ceiling, and Bill desperately wants to make things better, to ease her pain.

"It's not too late for him to just disappear."

The remark earns him a sad smile and a touch of her hand to his arm.

"We can't do that." _I can't have any more deaths on my conscience._ She does not need to say it, he understands.

"For all his crimes, he's one of us."

"So what happens next?"

"We give him his trial."

Just like that. She has always been the more practical one, the _stronger_ one, and he smiles at her again.

_Don't give up. We'll get through this together, you're not alone._

Next time she needs time and space, she'll come to him.


End file.
